Postcards from Pasadena
by charmizane
Summary: After suffering a tragic loss, a Pasadena native finds new life in her hometown when Spring Training 1933 opens. When she reaches out for love and friendship, will the outfielder who catches her heart drop the ball? AH, rated M.
1. Chapter 1

Racing toward the next neighborhood, my feet carried me with a grace and speed I didn't recognize. Normally, I'd already have tripped and skinned my knees on the uneven ground, loose dirt and tree roots, but sheer need and determination kept me nimble and upright. Unscathed, I arrived at the address I wished I didn't know so well.

I caught my breath before ascending the steps to the front door. Though I meant to knock on the door, adrenaline led me to pound instead. The portly senior who owned the house pulled open his door to answer the interruption of his evening. When he saw me, his face fell, erasing the smile that was there a moment before. He moved to speak, but I cut him off before he could begin.

"Dr. Gerandy, please...you have to come over—he can't breathe." I could barely breathe myself as I begged the doctor to attend to my dying father. I had run from my house to the good doctor's, hoping he would make a house call on a Sunday.

He ran a hand through his thick, white wavy hair, sighing as he asked. "Is it that time?" I couldn't say the words out loud, instead giving him a quick nod. "Of course, Bella—let me retrieve my bag and I'll drive us to your house." I stood in the doorway wringing my hands impatiently while I waited; not wanting to leave my father alone if he didn't have much time left.

Mrs. Gerandy came to me, taking my hands into her own worn palms. "Bella, I'm so sorry. If you need anything, please make sure to come see me."

"Yes, Mrs. Gerandy, I will." When her husband reemerged, I gently pulled my hands from hers and walked down the steps of the porch.

Turning my head back to the house, I watched the doctor give his wife a kiss. I stood in the walkway to wait for him. When he approached me, he gently laid his hand on my shoulder and guided me toward the well-kept whippet sedan parked on the street. He opened the passenger door for me before walking around to situate himself in the driver's side. We made the short trip in silence, Dr. Gerandy concentrating on the street, me tugging at the strings on the frayed sleeve of my cotton blouse.

I knew Father was beyond saving; he was set to die, and though I had come to terms with the loss of him, but I couldn't stand the horrific pain he was in. He wouldn't let on how much he suffered, I could see it in his eyes and in the way his frail body shook with every cough. His body was so pale it was almost translucent and he seemed to waste away more with every droplet of sweat. I hoped the doctor understood what I needed him to do. Charlie needed peace.

Dad's illness had taken hold of him three months ago. It began with a persistent cough that turned to unending fever and severe weakness, eventually leaving him bedridden. I had cared for him throughout the entire ordeal, watching this tall, muscular man who raised me wither away into a shell of his former self. Now, his body was consuming him, attacking him from the inside out. His breath came in the faintest of whispers, even the slightest movements causing him to wince in pain.

Through it all, he still asked if I was eating enough, if any boys had caught my eye and if there was anything I needed. I _wasn't_ eating enough—I couldn't—but told him that I was. There weren't any boys, and Dad just said no one would be good enough, anyway. What I needed was for him to get better, but as time wore on, I knew that hope was fruitless.

Soon I would be alone, I thought.

The doctor parked in front of our modest house. I flew from the car, not having the patience to wait for the him to display his manners by opening my door. He followed closely behind me as I hurried into the house, making for the back bedroom my father occupied. Before entering the room, we each donned one of the paper masks that hung limply from a simple nail on the hallway wall.

"Hey Dad," I spoke through the mask, "I brought the doctor to see you." It took all my willpower to hold back the tears that threatened to escape. My father could barely open his eyes to look at me, let alone turn his head in my direction, but he still made the attempt. Seeing that broke my heart even more.

"Bells," he croaked, "you didn't need to bother the doctor." He braced himself for the impending cough that would punish him for daring to speak. Fortunately, the thick, wet fit was short.

"Dad." I sat down in the stool next to his bed, took his hand in mine and laid my other hand on his unshaven, sweaty cheek. "Please don't waste your energy—Dr. Gerandy is here to assess your needs."

"Bella, how about you get your dad a fresh glass of water," the doctor spoke up.

"Okay, I'll be right back."

The doctor took my place in the stool and began to check Charlie's vital signs as I left the room.

I walked to the kitchen and gripped the counters for support and focused on the air that moved in and out of my lungs with ease. It wasn't right; my dad should be inhaling and exhaling with the same lack of difficulty as we ate Sunday dinner together. Instead the most selfless man I knew was suffering terribly. I tried to mentally prepare myself, knowing this night would be both the shortest and longest of my life.

Tonight I would lose my father.

Several minutes later the doctor walked into the kitchen. He took off his mask and started to explain my father's situation. "Bella... he is in an immense amount of pain. The gurgling noise in his voice and breath is his lungs filled with fluid and blood."

The corners of my eyes were wet and my face tightened as I listened. "Is there anything I can do?" I knew there wasn't, but I still had to ask.

"Bella, he won't make it through the night. The morphine should kick in soon. He won't be suffering much longer—I suggest you say your goodbyes now."

I nodded my head and rubbed the heel of my hand against my cheek to wipe away the escaped tears.

"I'll return in the morning to take care of the arrangements. I'm very sorry; your father is a good man."

"Thank you for everything." I whispered, the lump in my throat making it painful to speak, then walked him to the front door.

Shutting the heavy wooden door, I leaned against it to try to calm myself. I couldn't go back into that room with tears on my face. I needed to display strength and courage; I needed my dad to know I would be okay, that he could go in peace, without worry. I knew he'd held on this long—suffering—just for me. When I was calm again, I went back to the kitchen to retrieve the glass of water I had originally gone to get.

I straightened my back and held my chin up as I reentered the room, taking my place at my father's side. I thought he might already be asleep, but instead he turned his head toward me with half-open eyes.

"Dad, you should be sleeping." I said, proud that I kept my voice from trembling.

"Bella," he was barely audible, "I'm so sorry."

"This isn't your fault, Daddy—please don't apologize."

"You're a good girl and I have always loved you, even before you were born. No matter what anyone says, you are my little girl, always." With that, a tear slipped down his cheek and mingled with the perspiration. If he cried, I couldn't hold it together, so I rushed to reassure him.

"Of course I am, Dad, always. No daughter could have asked for a better father." I lay my head down on his shoulder, crying silently as I listened to his shallow breathing as he fell asleep.

The air was too thick, and after several minutes passed, I had to leave the room. I stood outside his doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest. Eventually, I slumped down against the wall and cried myself to sleep on the hallway floor.

My father died in his sleep that night. Dr. Gerandy held true to his word, arriving the next morning with an ambulance to take care of my father's remains. Charlie had already made most of the arrangements, leaving me little to do but grieve for him.

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Only a few days later, I found myself standing in front of my father's casket, surrounded by off-duty cops, the doctor, his wife and my friend Michael. Though I was there to watch my father be buried and to accept the condolences of the men he'd worked with, I couldn't focus on anything but the incongruity in front of me. The cemetery held so much death, yet teemed with life. The grass was green and lush; the birds flitted about and chittered away in the trees, and the squirrels scurried by, their cheeks fat with seed. Eventually, the guests nodded their goodbyes, except Michael, who stayed by my side.

When the gravediggers began to work, I couldn't ignore the scene in front of me any longer. It was time to leave.

"Thank you for coming, Michael—it meant a lot to me." He was sweet, and always a good friend who never treated me as the employee I was.

Michael's dad owned Newton's Diner on Lake Avenue. It was one of the few eating establishments that had been relatively unaffected by the economic downturn. I worked as a waitress to make some money before I started at City College. When I turned eighteen, I'd insisted on finding a job, much to my father's chagrin. He had been good friends with Mr. Newton and arranged the part-time job and regular shifts I enjoyed.

Michael also worked at the diner during the summer and other short breaks from USC. We went out on a few dates before he left for college. I liked him, but wasn't in love, so my heart wasn't broken when he told me he had met a girl, Jessica, and fell for her. I was a bit hurt, but was glad we had remained friends.

Michael reached for my hand. I knew he was trying to offer comfort, but it only felt awkward. "I'll give you a ride home."

"I'd prefer to walk."

"Walk?" he scoffed. "That will take hours."

"I know—I just need to clear my head, I don't want to go home just yet."

"Are you sure?"

"I am, but I'll see you tomorrow."

"We aren't expecting you back until Monday."

"No." I shook my head. "No, I need to get back to normal; I can't sit in that empty house."

"We hired a new girl to replace me when I head back to school," he said. "She was glad to take the extra shifts for you. She started the other day, real nice although a bit quirky, buzzed around the diner like a bee."

"All right, I guess I could use the extra days off to take care of some household issues. Please tell her I said thank you and that I look forward to meeting her."

"I will."

I walked with Michael to his parked car, giving his hand one last squeeze in silent thanks.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride?"

"I'll be fine."

I watched him drive away and fade into the distance before I started my journey back to Pasadena. Michael was correct; the walk from Glendale would take hours.

I wanted to use the time to focus on my path both, figuratively and literally. Dad had fallen ill during my last month of high school. He was proud of my educational accomplishments and supported my desire to continue my education, making sure I registered for college and insisting on paying my first-semester fees. He knew I would worry about finances and focus on work instead. If I didn't continue with school, he would have been terribly upset. I wasn't looking for a husband; I wanted to pursue my life's work in the peaceful setting of a library, not in the hustle and bustle of a diner.

As much as I tried to remember that I was young and had a long future ahead of me, I couldn't shake the overwhelming feeling of loneliness. My mother left a few years back; I was an only child and I didn't have any close friends.

Thinking of my mother reminded me that I needed to write and inform her of Charlie's fate. I didn't know if a simple letter was in order, or if I should explain to her in detail about his suffering and pain–how he called for her in his sleep, how I could have used someone to lean on.

Maybe I could travel to Arizona and face her instead, to throw in her face that she'd broken his heart and every one of her vows to him, that she'd broken the unspoken promise a parent makes to their child not to abandon them. I knew myself, though; I would rein it in and be kind. I wouldn't let her know how hurt and wronged I felt. A plain, straightforward letter was in order.

Almost three hours had gone by and my feet ached. I should have taken the direct route down Holly Street, but instead I found myself detouring to the Colorado Street Bridge. Halfway across the curved piece of architecture, I looked down into the Arroyo Seco. Charlie wasn't the only one who lost his soul that night; I'd felt hollow ever since I woke in the hallway the next morning. I didn't know how I would ever recover.

I leaned over the concrete railing, wondering how many people found solace in the depths below. There wasn't a month that went by without a report in _The Tribune_ of a body recovered under the aptly nicknamed "Suicide Bridge." Had those people felt as lost and lonely as I did? I stood next to one of the lamps that lined the road and stared down, peering through the trees as cars stuttered past. Would the impact hurt? Would I die the instant I hit the stones that lined the cavern? The same smooth, oval stones that I would crash down on also decorated the columns on the sleeper porch of my house; Charlie had quarried them himself. He would be so disappointed in me if I gave up.

Death was peaceful, easy; living was harder. My father had struggled to stay alive for me; I couldn't bring myself to let him down. I had to live, for him.

I made it across he bridge and went home.

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**A/N Thank you to my editor wickedcicada. She has guided me, encouraged me and has become a wonderful friend. Thank you for everything.**


	2. Chapter 2

The long walk home was physically and emotionally taxing, and my body barely made it to the house. My feet were swollen and rubbed raw. As I walked the last block, a blister on my ankle broke and the skin flapped with every step. I ached from neck to toe and needed to soak in a hot bath.

I hobbled through the front door and limped to the bathroom to turn on the tap. Sitting at the edge of the tub, I carefully removed my leather oxfords to survey the damage. Being ever prepared from dealing with a lifetime of my stumbles and scrapes, Charlie kept the medicine cabinet fully stocked with bandages, salves and ointments. Band-aids wouldn't be enough this time out; I needed to lightly wrap my wounded extremities with gauze and tape.

As the tub filled with steamy water, I dipped a toe in, only to jerk it out when the water stung against one of the broken blisters. I'd have to carefully ease myself into the soothing water; my muscles craved the heat awaiting them.

Soaking in the tub was so relaxing that I almost fell asleep, but eventually the water cooled enough to pull me from my tranquility. I sighed as my gaze landed on my propped-up feet. Better to take care of them before the warm, steamy room turned to cold and damp.

After I emerged and wrapped myself in a robe, I attended to the damage. Wincing at each gentle dab of ointment and careful touch of gauze. I was ever so grateful that Michael and Mr. Newton had insisted on filling my shifts for the rest of the week. I could barely walk to my bedroom, let alone stand on my feet all day.

My bed had never looked more welcoming or felt so comfortable. Still in my robe, with my hair a tangled, wet mess, I lay on top of the blankets and tried to focus on a flaw in the wood above me. The room was too quiet; I listened to myself breathe, my heart and mind growing heavier with every pass of air. When it appeared the flaw was slowly increasing in size and the ceiling was moving closer, I knew my exhaustion had turned to delirium.

The pressure of the day finally descended on me, weighting me into the mattress. I curled into a ball and began to sob, soaking my pillow with the saddest, fattest tears a person could weep. The silence of the room was shattered by my wails and woes.

Eventually I cried myself to sleep, putting to rest the most heart-rending day of my life.

******

The sun had risen to just the precise place that its rays blazed through the window of my room, shining directly onto my face. The hot light filtered through my eyelids, temporarily blinding me. The heat of the day left me sweaty and wrung-out. It felt late in the morning; I could have confirmed my suspicions if only my alarm clock hadn't stopped working. I needed the bathroom and to get a drink, but the thought of walking stopped me short.

Nevertheless, I knew I should get my day started, maybe get the working clock out of my father's room. That last random thought startled me, bringing me no desire to leave the sanctuary of my bed. Instead, I wanted to return to my dreamless slumber. My primal needs went unsatisfied as I dropped my weary head back onto the cushion and forced myself to fall back to sleep.

My mind desperately searched for the restful state I had possessed before, to no avail. Searching for comfort, I brought the blanket up over me, only to be tangled up in it from tossing and turning. Deep sleep eluded me and I woke up constantly, with salt from my tears caked on my cheeks. Another day passed as I continued to ignore the gnawing pressure in my stomach.

Eventually, I could no longer deny biology and emerged from my bed before the sun made its debut. I gingerly stepped out of my room and started the day. I dressed in my pajamas and realized I should put out the empty milk bottle for exchange. The milkman would be by in a few hours and I didn't have much in the icebox as it was.

Outside the front door, yesterday's newspaper awaited me. At the thought of what it contained, my appetite disappeared. I stayed in the doorway and opened the paper, moving straight to the obituaries.

There it was in black and white—the dedication to my father. It was a short, but moving tribute to his life, beginning with his date of birth, hometown and parents, then moving through his life, his heroism as a highly decorated veteran of the Great War, his years of service with the Los Angeles Police Department and how he'd risen in the ranks from city patrolmen to detective. It ended with brief mentions of my mother and me.

Idly, I wondered what to do with an obituary. It felt wrong to toss the words into the trash, but I didn't necessarily want to frame them, either. I could probably tuck the page into the family bible, but Charlie hadn't cared much for religion.

Then there was the matter of my mother. I'd written to her every week through Dad's illness, not that she'd ever replied or even cared. But now I had to send the worst letter of all.

I rolled up the _Daily Tribune_, closed the door and sat at the secretary in the front room. Maybe putting pen to paper would make me feel better.

My pen hovered over the blank piece of stationery on the desk, the little flowers in the corner of the page mocking my inability to find the correct words. I didn't know how to tell her about the saddest moment of my life while trying to sound like I was going to be okay, but I _had_ figured out what to do with the tribute.

August 19, 1932

Dear Mother,

It is with a sad heart and great regret that I write to inform you of the passing of Charlie, my father and your former husband. He surrendered to consumption on Sunday and was buried at Forest Lawn Cemetery two days ago. I'll enclose a clipping of the obituary from _The Tribune_.

I am still employed at Newton's Diner and will soon begin attending classes at City College.

The Olympics concluded in Los Angeles; many of the athletes stayed in town during the games. I served coffee to a few members of the American Modern Pentathlon team. I wished them luck, but didn't stay apprised of the medal results.

Hopefully the cooler weather of autumn will arrive soon. I imagine you feel the same, given the heat you experience in Arizona. Rain would be welcome–the unusually hot summer has turned the hills brown.

Wishing you the best. Please give my regards to Phillip.

Truly,

Isabella

I folded the letter and stuffed it into an envelope. After writing out the address from memory, I sat watching the ink dry while thinking about the items I needed to attend to.

As much as I would rather have rested my feet and stayed home in the soft cotton pajamas Charlie gave me for Christmas, I knew I had to get out of the house. I had to visit the daily market and post office. I really needed to think about getting telephone service for the house. Never had the need for one been more apparent than in the last month. Right now, I could be calling in for a delivery, but instead I would have to walk into town on my sore, bandaged feet. Thankfully, it wasn't too far away.

The time for me to face the world outside my little bungalow had dawned with the sun.

******

Soon it was the first Saturday of September. Almost two weeks had passed and I was due to start my college classes in two days. I had made every effort to show the people around me I was doing well, even though I really wasn't. From what little I knew about people, they only wanted to hear that you were doing fine. Pouring my heart out created an uncomfortable air that would only make me feel worse in the end.

I had returned to work and met the new waitress, Alice. Michael had been very accurate when he described her as a bumblebee. She was a little package bursting with excitement. Though we'd seen each other during overlaps of our shifts, I hoped we would work a full day together soon. Her enthusiasm made our shared time fly by.

More than anything, I was grateful to be around someone who hadn't known me before my personal tragedy. She greeted me with sparkling eyes and warm smiles, whereas everyone else cast sympathetic eyes and grimaces toward me. I liked Alice instantly and our relationship was perfect; she did most of the talking and I was happy just to listen.

My afternoon shift at the diner began as Alice was finishing up her morning and leaving for the day. She hugged me tightly as I entered the restaurant. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you."

"Me too, Alice." I patted her back lightly. I wasn't used to this kind of affection, especially in public, but I had found that I liked it and maybe even needed it a bit.

She pulled back and held my shoulders as she became very serious, her big blue eyes fixed on my own. "You haven't forgotten about tonight, have you?" she asked.

"Of course not—I'll be there, cheering you on," I said.

"Good. I'll look for you after the show, so don't leave, okay?"

"You're going to be great."

"Abyssinia!" she sang out as she walked away.

I watched her leave, and then moved into my position behind the counter.

Alice had a play opening tonight at the Pasadena Playhouse. She was portraying "Abbie" in a revival of _Desire Under the Elms_. There was some controversy over the content of the play, and talk around town had led to a sold-out opening night. I enjoyed reading plays, but rarely attended a production. Tonight, though, I wanted to support my new friend and her dreams, and looked forward to doing something beyond my usual routine of reading until I fell asleep.

She had also sewn quite a few of the costumes, and I suspected she was just as excited about her creations as she was about the part. Alice's love for fashion might have eclipsed her desire to work in films as an actress; she spoke about costuming on a regular basis. Of course, it didn't surprise me that she had already changed out of her uniform when I saw her, with a hat neatly pinned in place and chunky bangles clicking against each other on her wrist. She hated to be seen in her mint-green restaurant garb.

My next few hours were consumed with pouring coffee and taking lunch orders. There weren't many customers and the day dragged on; I managed to spill hot coffee on my apron and stub my toe against a corner I walked past almost everyday.

When the workday finally ended, Mr. Newton was kind enough to let me call a cab before leaving. I needed to hurry home and change to get to the Playhouse on time. I should have brought a change of clothing with me to work and gone straight to the theatre.

I hastily approached my house, slowing when I noticed a shadowy figure on the sleeper porch. I tried to make out who my visitor might be, wracking my brain trying to think of whom I might have invited over, but I hadn't spoken to anyone outside of work.

As I made my way up the path, the person called out, "Bella!"

My mystery guest was my mother. She ran down the steps and embraced me.

It was hard for me to believe the scene unfolding in front of me. She hadn't returned to see me since she left four years ago. I let myself go limp in her arms as tears trickled down my face.

"Mom?"

She combed her fingers through my hair, just as she'd done to comfort me when I was a little girl. "It's okay now. I'm here."

Together, we walked back to the porch and sat on the bench. Though smartly dressed in a dark floral dress with a ruffled collar and a black hat, she looked so much older than I remembered. Her hair had gray strands running through the light brown waves. She appeared tired and worn out; her face sagged a bit and she was too skinny.

Renée was beaming and she couldn't stop touching me. "Look at you—all grown up and so pretty."

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

She looked a bit taken aback at the question. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Of course I am; it's just that you always said you couldn't get away from your job. How did you manage to get the time off?"

"I hated it there—ridiculous bankers thinking they were cowboys for a week and their wives who were offended by dust. I knew you needed me, so I promptly quit when I received your letter."

My mother lived and worked on a dude ranch. She cleaned cabins, served meals and helped take care of the horses. Her husband labored as a ranch hand, a far cry from his former life in banking and investments. In her letters, she often spoke ill of her employer and the duties she had to perform. I knew she was unhappy, but in times like these a person took any job they could.

"What about Phillip?" I asked. It wouldn't surprise me if she had left yet another husband.

"Bella, he was so concerned about you that he left, too. He's in town, running some errands."

A car puttered down the street and stopped in front of the house; my taxi had arrived. I hated disappointing Alice, but my mother's unexpected arrival trumped my evening plans.

"Mom, I'll be back in a moment. I need to speak with the driver."

I walked to the curb and informed the driver that his services were no longer required. After I paid him for his time, I returned to the porch and found my mother peeking through the windows.

Renée turned to face me when I approached. "Did I interrupt your evening? I didn't mean to."

"No, no—it's fine. I was supposed to attend a friend's play, but I can catch another showing."

"If you'd still like to go, Phil can give you a ride. We have a car; it's a tin can, but runs pretty good—we'll just settle in while you're gone." Pointing at the glass, she said, "It all looks the same inside, just as I remember."

"Not much has changed, really. Well, except..." As tears welled up, I bit my lip to keep it from quivering.

"Well I'm here now; we'll take good care of you." She rubbed soothing circles on the tops of my hands.

Then it clicked, like a switch turning on.

"Mom, where are you and Phil staying?" I asked.

She was hesitant at first. I watched her straighten her back and smooth the front of her dress before she replied. "I thought we would stay here, close to you. There is plenty of space, as I recall."

Renée thought she was moving in. She thought Charlie's death meant she could waltz right back into this house. I imagined the smile that must have arrived on her face when she learned of his illness. Had she been planning this since she first heard the news?

Disgusted, I yanked my hands from hers and barked out, "No!"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean that you can't just come back here and move in with your new husband. This is my father's house."

"We have nowhere else to go. What would you have me do?"

"I didn't ask you to leave Arizona. I'm glad to see you, but this," I waved my arms at the house, "isn't yours anymore."

"This used to be my house. Charlie built it for me; you can't say I'm not entitled to something."

"That is precisely what I'm saying; he built it for us, as a family. You left; nothing was ever good enough for you, you always wanted more..."

"Bella," she interrupted.

"No, let me finish—I can understand that you were unhappy, but you also abandoned me. I should have been enough for you."

"I made some mistakes in life, but this is a second chance for us. I can be here for you now."

"Too late. I needed you so many times and right now, I don't."

"You're upset. Let's go inside and talk."

I was so angry that my breathing picked up and my hands involuntarily balled into fists. "You can't go inside," I said. I moved to stand up, but she pulled me back down.

Renée had tears streaming down her face. "You need to understand—I stayed as long as I could. I didn't love your father. He was holding me back; I thought I was destined for so much more."

Nausea bubbled through my belly at her words. I knew how she felt; I remembered the ranting and arguments, the constant complaining about her drab life. Through it all, my father had never stopped loving her. How someone as kind and devoted as Charlie could love someone so opposite from him, I would never understand.

"He was a fool for loving you. I was a fool in that I didn't realize right off that you had an ulterior motive. You're delusional!"

All too quickly, her "devastation" turned to anger. Rising from her seat, she yelled, "He _was_ a fool—I had no respect for him."

"Stop it, just stop. You can't speak to me like this." I rose to face her. "My father just died."

"He wasn't even your father." At that, her eyes grew wide and she threw her hand over her mouth, gasping.

I was stunned; how could she spout such a horrible lie?

"You're a liar—leave now." I pointed to the walk, but she didn't move. Instead, she crumbled back to the bench.

Crying into her hands, she mumbled, "I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to know; I was just so angry. Please forgive me."

"What am I forgiving you for?" I asked.

She continued her confession, not seeming to have heard me. "Charlie went to Europe to fight and I was sure he would die. When I wrote to tell him I was expecting, he sent back a letter so sweet and overjoyed that I just let him believe I had conceived before he left."

"Are you telling me you had an affair while my father was off fighting in the war?"

I was a bastard, my mother an adulteress.

"Yes, he had just left; I was young, naive and needed comfort," she replied.

"You disgust me."

"Your father never knew; I thought everything would be perfect once we were all together in California."

My father's last words floated through my head. _"No matter what anyone says, you are my little girl, always." _The attention he paid to his finances toward the end, making sure all property was in my name, made more sense in this new light. While he might have loved my mother, he didn't trust her.

"He knew," I whispered.

Renée looked up at me. "No, he never did."

"He did know, and never once did I doubt his love for me. He raised me like I was his own, and gave me everything." I pointed at the broken woman in front of me. "You made me feel like a burden. I wondered what I did to make you leave; now I just want you to go."

My fury vanished. Throughout her life, Renée looked out only for herself and made poor decisions. When I was younger, she'd seemed larger than life, but now she looked so small to me. I felt nothing but pity for her.

The air cooled as dusk settled in. Another car pulled up to the house; I could see Phillip in the driver's seat about to open his door, but I held out my hand to stop him.

"Your ride is here. I think it's best you go now," I said flatly.

"Bella, we can work this out," she pleaded.

"Please, I need to get ready. I'm terribly late as it is."

She slowly walked down the steps, her head hung low. Halfway down the path, she turned to look up at me.

"Isabella, I love you."

"I love you too, Mom. Make sure to send me your address when you get settled."

She entered the car and I watched her brief exchange with Phil, wondering what she was telling him. After a few moments, they drove away. Though I loved my mother and would eventually forgive her, never would I forget what she'd done.

Entering the house, I waited for a moment while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I tried to wrap my mind around everything I had just learned. In a brief moment, everything I knew had changed on the surface, but the essential truths were the same. My devoted father was still dead, my selfish mother still thought only of herself, and I stood alone.

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**A/N Thank you to my editor wickedcicada. She has guided me, encouraged me and has become a wonderful friend. Thank you for everything.**


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